Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 32

for no good reason.

I'm just going to put this over here.

skål!

I have no culture. But once a year, for one night, I'm Swedish.

Photo by my favorite Swede, Jim Axelsson.

I know, I know. It's kind of strange, because there's probably not a drop of Swedish blood in me, and I'm all the wrong colors, and most of the food is still a mystery. But it's so much fun that I look forward to it every year. 


Therefore, here's my guide to having a fun Midsommar.


First, the kids swim. And then we all dance around a maypole and sing fun songs about how frogs don't have ears or tails, but pigs do, and then pigs say NERF NERF NERF. (Note: the first time I danced around the maypole, I thought the song was about half moose-half duck animals that lived in Sweden, and I really wanted to see one. But I was wrong.) And then the children use a pool net to hook goodie bags from behind a fence. They find this so exciting that they all beg to be Swedish.


This year, they got lots of glow-in-the-dark and fiber optic stuff, so they glowed all night.


Which was kind of great, because then we could tell if anyone had fallen in the pool.




Then there's the traditional Riding of the Liöns, but which is like a lion, but stone, and with an umlaut.




Just kidding. that part's not required. It's just an extra added Midsommar bonus.

Then, once the children are fed and sated, the adults sit down under a long tent decorated in the Swedish colors of blue and yellow and have a traditional Swedish meal. There are things you'd expect, thanks to Ikea-- delicious meatballs, potatoes, lingonberries. But then there are mysterious, fantastical things, like perfectly boiled eggs with pink squiggles (THAT AREN'T ICING, WHICH I FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY) and shrimp-things with eyeballs and interesting cheeses in the shape of the maypole and mustard in a TUBE.

You have to sit boy-girl-boy, and you're not allowed to sit next to your spouse. There are little carousels of airplane-sized Swedish liquors strategically placed all along the table, and you start out very picky. By the end of the night, we're all daring each other to try the nastiest ones we can find, especially a very bitter one called Bäska Droppar, which was once voted "the worst liquor in the world". It's kind of a fascinating experience, as the aftertaste is 1000 times worse than the actual drink, such that you take a big swig and say IT'S NOT SO BAD, LOSERS, and then ten minutes later you feel like you ate a frog.




And that's one of *my* Midsommar traditions. Since the hosts' beautiful house is out in the woods by a pool, they have an abundance of frogs and toads. You have to yell to hear each other over their little froggy love songs. And I get all excited and make a ridiculous spectacle out of myself, chasing them around in my heels and fancy dress and scooping them out of the pool and forcing them on all my friends.



Because, honestly, how many times a year can you get drunk and kiss frogs?




That's Gary. He was small and sticky and adorable, and I carried him around for fifteen minutes, until he tried to hop down my dress.


There were also toads, but they weren't as much fun.


Another Midsommar tradition is that everyone has cake and Swedish coffee, which is like jet fuel. Every year, the cake is from Publix, and therefore delicious. This year's cake was, in all honesty, the best Midsommar cake I've ever seen. It was all blue with white and yellow swirls, and it said GLAD MIDSOMMAR. And in the middle of the cake was a UNICORN.

Now, unicorns aren't a part of the Midsommar tradition. But the unicorn on this cake was magical. And the children got very excited about eating it-- the unicorn, not the cake. So an adult had to cut the cake with surgical precision, divvying the Swedish Midsommar unicorn into sections as skillfully as a butcher dividing a carcass. One kid got the horn, one kid got the face, one kid got the body, several kids got hooves, and one girl considered herself "very spoiled" because she got, and I quote, "ALL THE BUTT."



I ate the D in GLAD. And then I ate everyone else's unfinished cake, because LOOK AT ALL THOSE BOTTLES, YO. Not all mine, BTW. I have learned the hard way that I can't outdrink the Swedes--although I do have to have at least a couple of mini-bottles so that I can keep up with the traditional Swedish drinking songs about throwing the drunken sailor in bed with the Captain's daughter, watching the money roll in to your family of degenerates, and having a little string of liquor down the back of your throat. After every song,  everyone yells "Skål!" and takes a drink. And there are *a lot* of songs.
As your basic American mutt, I can't tell you how much it means to me to be included in this beloved tradition. To be invited in and treated like family is a great privilege, and I love to see everyone and catch up and watch the decade's worth of photos scrolling through on the big TV all night. I get to see one of my favorite roommates from college, hang out with another writer, and make jokes with a guy who worked with the wife of a guy I went to high school with. 
Sitting there by the pool, eating and drinking and laughing by lantern light as frogs peep-- it's one of my favorite nights of the year.
GLAD MIDSOMMAR, EVERYBODY!

the artist's conundrum and my tramp stamp

On one side: You can do anything! Dream big!

On the other side: Know your limitations. Beware Hubris. Pick your battles.

La Primevere et La Plume by Alphonse Mucha
It's a struggle I've always... um... struggled with. I can do anything-- except the things I can't do.

See, I have this vision of a back tattoo. Mucha-inspired. Art Deco. Big. And it will cover up that line drawing I did when I was 20 that is now universally called a "tramp stamp". When I was 20, we just called them "tattoos".

But I've come to realize over the years that my art skills constantly disappoint me. I'm not the artist I want to be. I can draw better than most people, and I can do great things with murals, but there's just no style to it. And the tattoo I'm trying to cover up is one of my own designs, and... I don't like it. I only see its flaws.

And yet.

How do I explain to someone else exactly what I want? What if they do a lot of work and it's not quite right? I have an artist's eye for detail and color and proportion, and nothing less than perfection will do. Working with someone on that kind of complicated collaboration takes time, work, back and forth, money-- in short, responsibility. And I don't have the mental space for that right now.

So do I do it myself and possibly hate it?

Or really commit to it and have someone else do it?

It's time to admit that I can't do everything. I can't be everything I dream of. There's room for me to improve as a writer, but history shows I'm topped out as an artist and probably shouldn't design anything I'll have to see in a mirror every day for the next sixty years. I'm finally old enough and wise enough to recognize my own limits, at least in regards to needles, patience, and permanence.

As for my own art, I'll stick to things that come with a DELETE button.



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Ebay is calling you, and you should totally give in.

It started out easily enough, with this.

Then I started seeing My Little Ponies on tumblr. Not the new ones, which are awesome-- the old ones. The ones I knew and loved. Turns out lots of people collect them.

I don't know why it never occurred to me before that. As a geeky girl in her prime with a hot internet connection and some Paypal cash, I could buy as many freakin' ponies as I wanted. But then it clicked.

I COULD HAVE AS MANY PONIES AS I WANTED.

I started researching MLPs online. The different generations, where to find them, how to clean them and fix their frizzy hair.

Suddenly, I found myself on Ebay, bidding for a few old favorites from my childhood. Not the ones I had and (FOOLISHLY) gave away. The ones I always wanted and missed, or couldn't get because my best friend got them first. Parasol was the first one. Then Firefly and Skydancer's pal, Starshine.

Then I discovered a stubborn, rebellious streak. I like the G3 ponies, the one that came out in the early 2000s, back when I was busy wearing collared shirts and working in cubes and trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself. I had no idea they ever existed, because I was too busy pretending I could be serious. And they're cheap, because no one else is fangirling. So I bought a few of those, too, including Round 'n Round, the one up there in that photo.

She was the first one to come home, and I set her on the shelf with a feeling of anticipation. The feeling of a collector, starting a collection. She needs a little upkeep, but I'm waiting. I'm waiting for Parasol, Firefly, Starshine, Bee Bop, and Amber Locks to come home, and then we'll have a Pony Prettifying Parlor Party, and SQUEE.

Guys, I'm telling you. If there's something you always wanted to collect, START NOW.

It feels so good, giving myself permission to love something I already loved. To accept that while I try to keep clutter at bay, I can donate one shelf in my office to something carefully cultivated and tended, something that makes me smile every time I glance over. Those things you wanted in your childhood--that you wanted and couldn't have?

You can have them now.

Go on. You have my permission.

And if any of y'all are looking to unload some ponies, hook me up.

I have a wishlist...

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on not budging

Sometimes, the parakeet gets a little balky.

No matter how much pop music I turn on and sing along with, no matter how many bits of his favorite seeds I sprinkle around myself like a giant birdy cupcake, no matter how much coaxing and smoochy-smooching I do, he just won't sit on my shoulder while I'm writing.

Yes, part of that is because when the garage door opened, a big bug ran over my leg and I jumped up screeching and accidentally kicked his cage and lurched around like a drunk bear, and he had a total wiggins.

But the thing is-- parakeets, like writing, take time. They can't be forced, but they can't be neglected, either.

Some days, you get 5000 words down and feel like a boss. Some days, getting 500 words is like pulling teeth out with pliers. Your own teeth. And the pliers have motor oil on them. Hell, some days, you only get five words, and they're all the F word, because F the writing, that's why.

But you keep trying.

It came up in conversation last night that whatever you're doing right now is the best predictor for what you'll be doing in five minutes. So whether you're sleeping, working, cleaning, or zoned out on Hoarders, chances are, you'll be doing the same thing in five minutes, because human beings are programmed for inertia. I mean, it makes sense. A cave girl who was working to stay alive would need to forage and hunt and cook, and as soon as the work was done, she would sit down and zone out to conserve the calories for which she had worked so hard.

But when you apply it to everyday life in 2012, it means that if I'm idly browsing boots and watching Twitter debates on dream casting for Outlander, I'll probably be doing it in five minutes, and then five minutes after that, and then nothing gets done and the day is over and I have nothing to show for it and feel like a zombie.

That's why even when the words don't come, I try. Even when the bird won't sit on my shoulder, I'm singing to him. And starting today, I'm going to make more of an effort not to waste time doing nothing when I could be dedicating myself to doing something.

In short, I will now fight inertia like a knight jousting on an ostrich.

If inertia is not budging, then by God, I will budge.

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how things happen

Why am I writing?
Because a little bird told me to.
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on cogitating and the writing process

Sometimes, this blog gets quiet. And that means I'm cogitating.

You'd be surprised how much of writing doesn't happen on the page or behind this laptop. It happens in my head. And when I have, say, two months to revise a big novel, write a 30k short story and come up with a complete synopsis for an even bigger novel, I get a bit lost in there.

Here's how it works.

1. My editor buys 2 e-novellas, which means that SHE OWNS ME. This is a great thing. But it also means that I don't get to tell the three stories rattling around in my imagination. She has specific things in mind, which means I have parameters. That makes it a little harder.

2. Any time I'm driving or near water, I'm cogitating. Brainstorming. Trying to find the right way. I don't really know how to explain it, how I know when the path is the right one. It's like standing in the middle of a swamp and looking for the solid chunks of land that will support your weight and allow you to continue rather than sink. You can tell when I'm on the right path because I'm looking into space, smiling, completely ignoring you. In this case, what I need first is a feeling for the heroine--who she is, what she does for a living, what will make her real to the reader. Deciding that will drive the romance and action.

3. I begin to find the path. Certain things become concrete. It's no longer "Maybe she's good-hearted but streetwise?" It's now, "Frannie is good-hearted and streetwise, and she runs a pet shop. She has trust issues following a broken heart." Almost like building a bridge, as each attribute is decided, it stays in place and I move on to the next step.

4. I start writing things down. Indecipherable things. At stop lights, while half asleep, in the drive-thru line to get an ice cream at ChickfilA. I leave myself little messages all over the place. Names, scenes, lines. But I don't really need the notes, as the act of writing them solidifies the story further.

5. I have the five major pieces of the story. a) the heroine meets b) the hero; there is c) an impediment, followed by d) a big, dramatic climax. Lastly, there's e) a follow up or big reveal, something that leaves the reader sated. As long as I know what those five points are, I'm almost ready.

6. Once I have enough pieces, I start cogitating on the opening scene. Sometimes, I already know it. Like right now--it starts with a guy face down in the gutter. Sometimes, I have to go through the same feeling and testing, looking for just the right bit of mushy ground to hold my weight. Wicked as They Come was like that. The opening scene changes with every draft, and if I had one more revision, I would totally change it to get the action started sooner.

7. I have the opening scene. I have the opening line. It runs on repeat in my head, and I know I'm ready to write.

8. I go shopping, buy a steampunky Alexander McQueen vest for $15, get an ice cream cone, and eat it while barreling through the night with the windows down, singing to Call Me Maybe. Because when a story comes together, I feel utterly complete and filled with energy and joy.

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Inspired by Deanna Raybourn's post on Janice Hardy's The Other Side of the Story blog. Process is a fascinating thing, and I find it comforting that no two writers do it the same way.

things I already miss

Watching these two selkies run for the water.

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Bringing our very own pirate to the Pirate's House.And eating lots of shrimp there.

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Ocean-flavored kisses.

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We're back home.I'm exhausted.And I'm going to sleep.
We'll pick up the parakeet tomorrow.
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returning to center

That's what I look like when I'm 100% happy. No makeup. Definitely no hair care. No fancy, practiced smile. No dangly earrings. Just me, at the beach, after throwing myself into the waves until I'm exhausted.

I only get to do this... maybe two hours a year. If I'm really lucky.

But it's when I feel the most myself, the most centered, the most right-where-I-belong.

I wasn't born near the beach. I didn't go there very often as a child, although I remember perfectly every time I did. The seaweed in my bathing suit at Panama City, the smell of the elevator at Daytona, the vine tunnel in Hilton Head that you ran through, pursued by angry mosquitoes, to access the ocean. And yet I love the beach so much that I'm almost a different person there. I relax. I don't worry. I wear skirts. I sit outside. I stand differently, walk differently, eat differently. When I'm here, time stands still, and half of what I say is simply some new iteration of "I love the beach," or "I'm so happy right now."

And the funny thing is that it has never occurred to me to move here. I have never contemplated that I am simply a body moving through space, untethered, and that with some minor changes, I could spend every day of my life by the palm trees, salt on my skin and sea air in my nose.

In my every day life, I get stuck in cycles and ruts. There are rhythms to family, to the seasons, to hormones, to work obligations, to the creative cycle. And after a while, I get cagey. Anxious. Almost frantic. Like there's a time bomb ticking, somewhere out of reach. And we've finally figured out that it's the sea, calling to me. As soon as the date's written on the calendar, I calm back down, knowing that I'll get to be here, right where I am, right, where I need to be, close enough to hear the waves.

Sometimes, the place you belong isn't an always, it's a sometimes. And that makes it all the more important.

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a great day. RAWR.

Don't feel too sorry for him, big-hearted types He was a kitten eater.

Just kidding. But he was responsibly harvested from a program that takes pride in having personally corrected alligator endangerment. Each decapitated head represents 1/17 of a gator released into the wild.

That's a statistic I can believe in.

Also, his tag features an alligator with a top hat and cane, and that's all I really  need.

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